


The Acceptance

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Gen, Married Couple, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia's acceptance plunges her into a world of fine silks and strange sensibilities.  Hisana and Byakuya consider Rukia's future.  Renji is beginning to understand the implications of Rukia's affiliation with the Kuchiki House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Acceptance

Hisana’s lips pull to the side as she pores over the Kuchiki family finances.  “The math isn’t right,” she sighs to herself.  Sometimes, she thinks the family does it just to spite her.  It is their form of protest or, worse, _retribution_ for her holding the title of Lady Kuchiki.

She does not particularly _blame_ them even if she does find their antics petty and hurtful.  She partly feels that she _deserves_ the punishment.  After all, she is _common_.  No, she is _worse_ than common.  She hails from one of the toughest, foulest, most disgraceful districts of them all, and, not once, has she had the good sense to renounce her birthplace.  Indeed, she has wallowed in it, reveled in it, searched it, wandered its streets day in and day out, making a greater spectacle of herself in the process.

And she has _loved_ every minute of her time in Inuzuri as Lady Kuchiki. 

Her Rukon heritage is undeniably part of her—a dimension of her soul that she clings to for support in her darkest of moments.  She has overcome poverty, violence, and the horrors of low status to become the Lady of one of society’s most esteemed houses.  It took a lot of maneuvering and _heart_ to accomplish such a feat. 

Many are quick to forget _that_. 

It is an _inconvenient_ implication of her comparative status.  No, it is much easier to characterize her as a docile but poorly bred blight.

Sometimes, she takes comfort in that misdirection.  It is an easier part to play.  And she does love conforming to the role the family has devised for her.  It makes playing against type—being _herself_ , in other words—in those rare moments that much more gratifying and surprising.

So, donning the role of the complacent woman, Hisana’s gaze fixes the numbers scrawled across the paper, and she scrutinizes every line of the ledger.  Recalculating the expenses proves tedious and _daunting_ , but she has become accustomed to such tasks.  Every month, it is the same.  If she is lucky, the miscalculation comes toward the end. 

She is rarely _so fortunate_.

Halfway through her task, an idea seizes her.  That idea quickly transforms into an epiphany.  It is irresistible, and she beams at her sudden shining moment of clarity. 

 _Something to take the place of scouring Rukongai_.  Indeed, now that her sister has been located, she has contemplated the manner in which she will fill her time.  Now, she may have found a new purpose.

* * *

 

Rukia carefully folds what little she has for the twentieth time.  The movements of turning down the edges of cloth coupled with the feel of her scratchy and threadbare kimono against her hands and arms proves relaxing.  It is mindless action.  Her thoughts go numb, and she concentrates on the feeling of air entering and exiting her lungs.

She folds the arms of her Rukon robes back.

_Out._

She folds the garment again.

She unfurls the material in a quick gesture.

She begins to re-fold the yukata.

 _Clack.  Clack.  Clack_ , goes the door to her room. 

The sound of knuckle against wood sets her aflutter. “Yes?” she calls, nearly jumping out of her skin.

“Lady Kuchiki arrives.”

Rukia’s eyes widen, and she sucks in a hard cold breath.  She expects a servant to collect her and her things.  In fact, she is certain the missive read, _‘The Lady will send her personal servants to collect you and your provisions.’_   She recalls the line; she has etched its characters into her brain; they are indelible and available to conjure up at a moment’s notice.   

_A mistake?_

“Y-ye-yes,” she stammers excitedly.    

A few moments pass before the whooshing sound of the door drawing back on its track fills the room.  Immediately, Rukia falls to her knees and bows.  Her chest and lips press fast against the slick wooden floorboards, and her arms stretch out in front of her head.

The fluttering of silk catches her gaze as she dares to glance up.

“Oh dear,” Hisana cries softly.  “There is no need to bow to me in your own dormitory.”  She immediately bends down, knees against the floor, and she cups Rukia’s cheek in her hand.  Her fingers are cold but tender.  “Please, we are sisters,” she says soothingly, easing Rukia’s head up.  “I cannot abide such formality from my own flesh and blood.”

Rukia’s eyes widen.  A mixture of fear, panic, and disgrace glisten in her look.  She doesn’t know quite how to behave or what to say.  She knows how to treat kindred spirits like Renji.  She knows how to behave around nobles like the academy students.  But a _noble sibling_?  The combination baffles her.  She has no clue or script to follow.  There is no mystical guide or innate sense that provides her with the right lines, the right movements, or the right expression.

Gaping, she follows her sister’s gentle prodding until she is sitting proper seiza.  “I’m so-sor,” she begins, but her sister’s silent shake of the head silences her.

“I am the one who should be apologizing!” Hisana chuckles lightly.  The light that shines brightly in her violet eyes quickly scatters until she appears remote and sincere.  “I am sorry,” she murmurs with creased brow and a heavy breath.  “I know this does not make up for the years of absence, but I hope to make amends.”

Rukia blinks, uncomprehending.  _Amends for what?_ she wonders.  It is not as if her sister _chose_ to assign her in Inuzuri or for the Powers That Be to separate them.  An algorithm sent them to random locations.  The fact that they found one another at all is remarkable, and Rukia feels blessed to have such a noble sister.

“Come,” Hisana says, tucking a stray tress behind Rukia’s ear.  “I have so much to show you.”

Rukia smiles faintly as her sister helps her to her feet.  Part of her wants desperately to express her gratitude, but everything feels like it is happening so quickly.  She feels breathless and lightheaded as if someone has spun her around and summarily set her loose like a whirling dervish. 

She is sure she will falter, and, caught in prickly thoughts, she nearly does.  Right on her face.  A quick hand against her shoulder, however, steadies her. 

“Rukia?” her sister calls, bending down to study her.  “You are as pale as a sheet of paper.”  Immediately, Hisana turns to her body servant, a young girl dressed in a brightly colored kimono.  “Will you fetch me some water?” 

Rukia catches the flicker of the servant’s robes as she scampers out the door.  “I am alright,” she says shakily. 

“Are you sure?”  Hisana’s brows furrow empathetically.

Rukia can tell that her sister needs some convincing before she will release her grasp.  So, she nods, sifting through her anxiety and stuffing it down.  “I am just nervous.  I never had a sister before.”

A small smile curves Hisana’s lips.  “No need to be nervous.”

Rukia bows her head and inhales a deep breath.  Anything to recover her composure.  A few painfully quiet moments pass between the two before Rukia locates her mental equilibrium. 

“My things,” she says softly to herself.  She nearly forgot _why_ Hisana waits so patiently.

Rukia gives a resolute nod of her head, and she takes a few long strides forward to her small writing desk.  Other than her academy silks, which she wears proudly, she possesses only her Asauchi, a small journal, and the ratty kimono inherited from her Rukongai days.  Bundling these items in her arms, she turns to her sister. 

Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment rises in her chest before surging through her already overloaded system.  Her heart sinks.  Her cheeks sting.  Her nerves pop in synchrony with her heartbeats.  A bright pink color sweeps across her face, and she goes numb, as her blood turns icy in her veins.

She owns four things in the whole world, two of which are on _loan_ from the Academy.

Mastering the panic that sets in at her meager worth, she glances up at her sister.  How much she would give to have had a servant collect her instead!  Anything! 

Hisana regards her with a penetrating stare.  “A yukata from Inuzuri?” she inquires with a pensive look.  She takes a small step forward to inspect the material.  Her fingers brush the coarse fabric, and she tilts her head to the side.  “It has been so long,” she murmurs, smiling wistfully as if recalling her days spent in Inuzuri.

Rukia’s brows furrow.  Had her sister been sent to Inuzuri upon death?  It certainly seems like she is familiar with the area beyond scouring it, at least.  Hisana had Renji pegged as hailing from the South 78th without much evidence save for his dialect.

“I remember this material well.”  Her gaze flickers to Rukia, and her smile lengthens.  “Tell me Rukia, which do you prefer?  The Academy silks? Or the Rukon hemp?”

No question.  “The silks!” Rukia blurts out, not quick enough to smother the visceral response.

Hisana cocks a brow and grins.  “Then we shall purchase you some silk.”

Rukia’s eyes widen, and her jaw drops.  “Really?”  Flabbergasted, her gaze trails down to the scratchy fabric.  It is inconceivable to her that she could possess anything other than threadbare, uncomfortable hand-me-down’s. 

“Of course,” her sister says as if it is only natural.  “I will have a servant return your uniform to the Academy later this evening once we find some garments to your liking.”

“Thank— ” Rukia begins, but her sister won’t hear any of it.

“No need,” Hisana says, swatting the attempt at gratitude away like a pesky fly.  “Come, the day is fading, and I still have so much to explain.”  She beseeches Rukia to follow her with a small gesture of her hand, and she moves to the door.

Rukia’s muscles lock for a brief moment.  Always hesitant and searching.  Years spent in Inuzuri have beaten caution and doubt into her.  Indeed, they are old reliable friends now, and, only after sensing that this is _not a trap_ , Rukia steps forward.  Her movements are light and tentative as she follows her sister into the corridor.

A second sight has already whispered warnings into her ears, and she goes stock still upon seeing the spectacle that her dismissal has created.  Some students—the ones that were either too polite or too arrogant to gawk—peek out from their rooms.  Other students stop mid-step and stare in wide eye wonderment.  Several students cover their mouths with hands or with fans so they can express thoughts, captious and biting, to nearby friends.   

To think, Rukia muses, that just a few moments before her sister arrived to collect her, the hallways were clear and quiet. (Or as quiet as the dormitory could be during class hours.) 

Rukia frowns.  It is a reflexive on her part.  But, a silent protest is written loud and clear on her face.  Collecting her thoughts, she forces her feet to move, but it takes great effort.  It takes even greater effort to unglue her gaze from the floor. 

Her hands fist in the silk cascading down her legs as she forces her head up.  She searches the hallway for her sister, who is serenely waiting for her. 

She wonders how her sister manages to _ignore_ the attention.  Years of practice?  Perhaps her sister doesn’t even notice the onlookers anymore?  At this thought, Rukia shudders.  Will she, too, inure to the burn of stares and the vitriolic comments that spew from the lips of her contemporaries? 

Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she lengthens her stride, but, just as she reaches Hisana, a brusque male voice steals her sister’s attention.  “Lady Kuchiki, what a pleasure!”

Rukia cannot see the man through the throng of servants and students, but she recognizes his voice.  Or, rather, she recognizes a _version_ of his voice.  A low, terse version that cracks and bleeds with violence and frustration.  It is free of those undertones, now.  It sounds deep and rich, almost melodic.  Not a note of malice.

 _He is pouring it on thick_ , her inner Rukon street urchin noisily notes in her head.  She knew those types of about-faces came with an _expectation_.       

“President Kikuchi,” Hisana greets with equal flare, and Rukia smiles, seeing a piece of herself flash across her sister’s visage.  “How is the construction on the new building coming along?” 

Her sister’s voice has a well-concealed edge to it, Rukia observes, and she wonders why.  Pressing close to Hisana, Rukia peers up at the President of the Spiritual Arts Academy.  He is a short, squatty man with graying hair combed to the side.  He looks _official_.  Not a thread out of place.  Ever.  Rumor has it that he is a _strict disciplinarian_.  Rukia, luckily, has had only limited contact with him, seeing him at various Academy-sponsored events. 

Her sister, it seems, knows the President intimately.  Or, at least, that is what he wishes everyone to believe.  She is unsure whether her sister feels similarly.

“Well!” he says ebulliently, grinning widely.  “Your family’s _generous donation_ has ensured that the project will be completed in a timely manner.”

“How wonderful,” Hisana responds, bowing her head politely enough.  “I will make sure to tell my husband.  He is a _loyal supporter_ of the Academy’s efforts.” 

Rukia’s eyes drift from her sister to the President.  Something about Hisana’s words, especially the latter sentiment, rings hollow to Rukia’s ears.  A sinking feeling betokens, first, that the donation is a recent thing, and, second, that it was given for a particular _purpose_ that goes beyond simple charity. 

“We appreciate his patronage,” he murmurs, bowing low. 

Hisana forces a smile.  “Thank you, President Kikuchi.”  She turns to Rukia, and her stiff smile softens.  “Have you met my sister?” she asks, gesturing gracefully in Rukia’s direction.

“Yes.  A lovely, talented student.  Her loss will be greatly felt.”

Rukia stares dumbfounded at the sudden and unexpected complement.  Lovely and talented?  Not the feeling she got while at the Academy.  More like present-but-not-very-promising. 

Hisana shoots Rukia a knowing and wry glance.  “How kind, Rukia,” she murmurs tersely.

 _A cue_ , Rukia realizes, and she jumps at the realization.  “Thank you, President Kikuchi, your words touch me,” and she bows.

“I am sure she will make an honorable Shinigami.”

Rukia bows again and keeps her eyes locked to the burnished wooden floorboards. 

“Keep us in mind should you require further funding,” Hisana says generously, but Rukia immediately questions her candor. 

The President, however, does not.  “We will.”

Realizing that her sister has tired of pleasantries, Rukia quickly bows her farewell and trails after Hisana. 

Upon exiting the Academy’s domain, Hisana’s gait slows.  Reading her sister’s intentions, Rukia bursts forward.  Questions buzz in her head, but she manages to swallow them for propriety’s sake.

“President Kikuchi curries a lot of favor in the community,” Hisana murmurs.

“You do not enjoy his company,” Rukia observes.  As soon as the words leave her lips, she cups her mouth and stares at her sister, wide-eyed and repentant.  She doesn’t know why, but she feels comfortable speaking freely with Hisana.  Many of her sister’s mannerisms remind her of her own.  They are more refined from years of practice, but they undoubtedly originate from a shared heritage. 

“No need to censor yourself around me,” Hisana says gently.  “But, is it _that_ obvious?” her voice drops to a whisper, and she bends her head towards Rukia.

Rukia smiles.  “I don’t think he noticed,” she replies earnestly.  He didn’t seem to, anyway.  Perhaps his hubris simply gets in the way of his ability to _read_ others? Rukia wonders. 

“They never do,” Hisana sighs.  Her sister’s words are likely a commentary on the well-regarded and titled men roaming Seireitei.    

 _A good thing to know_ , Rukia thinks to herself.   

“Come,” Hisana murmurs as she casts aside her pensive expression, “let us find you some suitable kimono.”  Genially, she loops her arm around Rukia’s and pulls her in the direction of a shop.

* * *

 

“You shouldn’t,” Izuru begins in his soft ‘this is just between us’ voice, “go near her ever again.”

Renji starts, feeling Izuru’s sidelong gaze catch him.  He doesn’t have to look.  He knows that Izuru is behind him with his head hung low and with eyes fixing him.  How does his friend know his inner thoughts? he doesn’t quite understand.  Is he staring too hard?  Too eagerly?  Like a dog begging for scraps? 

Exhaling a small breath, he closes his eyes. 

She accepted the offer.

Just like she should have.

Just like he told her to.

He tortures himself on the thought of whether he forced her to do it.  He doubts it.  For a moment, he thinks that she would have accepted even if he had not said a word.  Even if he had pretended that it never happened.  But, what if… 

What if he had asked her to refuse? 

He squeezes his eyes as he considers the question.  Never.  Not in a million years would he have asked her to make such a choice.  He loves her as if she is his own flesh and blood.  He loves her more than he loves his own happiness or his own safety. She deserves the best even if _the best_ means never seeing him again.

“I know,” he says, drawing out the words in a long breath.  _I know_.

“It’s for your sake,” Izuru explains, obviously feeling a modicum of pity for his friend, “and hers, too.”

Renji raises his head.  He knows.  Izuru doesn’t have to tell _him_.  He _knows_.  But, he doesn’t ask Izuru to stop.  No, he goes still, numb, and dark.  He waits for his friend to complete his observation, bracing himself for the sting of words and thoughts too painful to admit to himself.

“She knows it herself.  She’s in a completely different place from us,” Izuru finishes.

The implication hits Renji like a fist to the face.  If even Izuru, who is born of noble blood, is beneath Rukia, what the hell does that make _him_?  _Dirt?  Worse than dirt?_   Does she think that now?  Now, that she is a _noble_?  Does she loathe him?  Find him repugnant?

Renji can still feel the heat of Izuru’s gaze bore into his neck.  Yet, it does not shake his stare.  It does not stop him from watching as Rukia passes through the corridor, keeping step with her sister.  The two are speaking.  Renji cannot hear the words; they are too low, too soft, too fleeting.  But, Rukia seems at ease as she shares a glance with Lady Kuchiki.  A small smile ghosts across her lips before she bows her head.  Her hair obscures her expression, but Renji knows that she is still holding the smile.

She never once turns to him despite his wanton staring.  She must feel him nearby, he thinks.  She has to.  They have known each other for so long.  So many days and nights have they shared, struggling and surviving the worst of it.  She must sense his presence; she has to feel the beat of his reiatsu as she crosses in front of him.

Yet, she never turns her head in his direction.  Never deigns to cast a small look his way.  Instead, she merely walks on, keeping pace with her sister and smiling _happily_ to herself.

And, why shouldn’t she? 

She is a noble after all.

* * *

 

Rukia stares into the mirror.  Her eyes are so wide that she can see their whites reflected back at her.  Her cheeks go pink, and her lips part.  Clumsily she lifts her arms at her sides, and she stares, dumbfounded. 

What does she say?  There are no words.  The whole thing is so foreign.  So strange.  The silks feel heavy and restrictive, unlike the Academy uniform. 

She feels like she is going to expire.  Right there.  Right then.  In front of everyone.

Her sister steadies her with a caressing touch and a soothing look.  “It is a woman’s curse,” she whispers playfully as she straightens the obi and tugs the fabric, releasing several gaps and wrinkles.  “Men adore us so much that they fashion garments to keep us from escaping.”

Rukia smiles at the quip, finding her sister’s eyes in the mirror.  She wonders if Hisana speaks from experience.  Her sister’s impish grin and devious gaze hint at the stories that she keeps locked behind her pink lips—stories that make Rukia intensely curious about the Lord of the House. 

“Peonies,” Hisana says, nodding approvingly at the pattern, “it is appropriate for spring.”  She tilts her head as she considers the kimono. 

For a moment, Rukia feels as if she has bled into the background.  Her sister’s gaze strips her of her humanity.  Instead of Rukia, she is merely a pretty _object_ , or, more exactly, a breathing piece of _art_. 

“It is lovely,” Rukia musters in a weak voice.  She cringes inwardly at the sound of her voice.  It is broken, leaving her in sharp fragments.

Hisana’s gaze trails up to her face.  “You do not like it?” she asks.  Concern glazes her eyes.

“No, I do,” Rukia manages convincingly enough.  It isn’t that she _doesn’t_ _like it_.  It is just that she feels awkward buried under a mountain of silk and priceless other accessories.  She doesn’t quite know the _cost_ , but she can only _imagine_ that the money required to purchase it could feed the residents of Inuzuri for a month. 

Hisana’s eyes soften, and a knowing expression eases the worry lines that crease her forehead.  “I see,” she murmurs.  A spark of recognition lights her visage for a moment, and she waves her hand.  “I felt similarly,” she says with a gentle voice, “It is overwhelming.”

Rukia nods feverishly.  It _is_ overwhelming.  So much, so suddenly.  It feels like a deluge of good fortune, and, instead of basking in it, she is drowning. 

“We have kimono at the manor,” Hisana says kindly.  “Choose the ones you like the most, Rukia, but don’t feel pressured to select something that you do not like.  You have many years ahead of you to search kimono.”

Rukia smiles.  “Thank you, Sister,” she says, bowing low.  “You are too—”

Hisana sighs, waving the pleasantries aside. Clearly, she will not have _any_ of it.  “Now, Rukia, what about your friend from yesterday?”    

Rukia springs back up.  Her back goes ramrod straight, and she stares at her sister.  Does Hisana mean what _she_ thinks her sister means?

“The redhead that seemed so keen to tell you about his test results?” Hisana expounds, misreading Rukia’s blank stare.

“Yes,” Rukia says, nodding, “Renji.”  What about Renji? she wonders.  Is her sister going to forbid her from ever seeing him again?  She holds her breath and prays that such is not the case.

“He is from Inuzuri, correct?” Hisana begins, placing her index finger against her lips.  She stares ponderingly to the side.

“Yes.”

“So that means that he does not have anything other than the Academy uniform, too?”

Rukia nods, slowly beginning to see where her sister’s logic is heading. 

“We should select something for him, too!”  Hisana says, smiling brightly at Rukia. 

Excitedly, Rukia bows low.  “You would do that?”

Hisana places a hand against her sister’s back.  “When we send the parcel, we should invite him to tea,” she says, staring distantly ahead.  Some strange idea ensnares Hisana, Rukia observes as she straightens.  It is as if Hisana is solving some complex calculation.  “Bonds forged in adversity are not easily broken, Rukia.  Nor should they be.”

Rukia glances at her sister, nonplussed.  What cryptic words, she thinks.  What do they mean?  Does her sister think that her sudden status will separate them now?  Should it?  Rukia doesn’t think it should, but nobles are strange creatures with even stranger customs and sensibilities.  Perhaps it is expected that she should cast aside her one and only friend for the sake of… _protocol_?  She doesn’t doubt that she would do it if required of her, to show her respect and fidelity to her sister and to make life easier for Renji, but that doesn’t mean her heart doesn’t chill at the prospect.

Hisana rakes Rukia’s hair out of the collar of the kimono.  “What do you think he would like?”

Rukia beams at her sister.  “I think I saw a garment over here,” she murmurs, quickly tracing her steps back to where she saw the gray kimono.  “What do you think?”

Hisana smiles, favorably.  “It looks very handsome.”  Her lips part, but a servant interrupts her next thought. 

Rukia does not hear the servant’s whispers, but she can tell that her sister is displeased.  The lines of Hisana’s face grow tense, and her eyes darken. 

“My apologies, Rukia,” she begins, “A pressing matter requires my attention.  My servants will ensure that you are well taken care of.  Select the kimono you desire, and make sure to include that invitation to your friend.”  She bows slightly and shoots Rukia a sweet lingering gaze before leaving.

Rukia glances helplessly at a young female servant, who smiles brightly before moving to her side.  “Do not worry, Lady Kuchiki, I will assist you.” 

The servant proves to be incredibly helpful and willing to please, reading Rukia’s apprehension and hesitance with great ease.  She selects two kimono at the prodding of the servant along with the gray kimono for Renji.  The servant handles the invitation to tea, drafting an elegant card to accompany the gift.

Rukia studies the purchase, pursing her lips.  She knows that Renji will secretly like the kimono, but she worries that he will reject her kindness.  She worries that it may offend him even though it is far from her intention.

“He will know,” the servant says sweetly, comforting her with an assuaging glance as they begin into the market. 

Rukia blinks, confused.

“That the gift is a code,” the servant explains.

“A code?” Rukia murmurs.  Her brows furrow, and she wonders what the _code_ means. 

“Yes,” the bright-faced servant chirps like a songbird, “That you may continue your friendship.”

Rukia’s eyes drift to the cobblestone.  “Of course,” her voice sounds distant even to her ears.  Hopefully, Renji can decipher the gift’s meaning or, at the very least, has a friend who can.

* * *

 

Byakuya enters his ancestral estate with a heavy sigh and a tired body.  Every muscle and sinew cries out from the brutal punishment that he has dealt.  He wonders how much longer his training must continue, and, instinctively, he shoots Senbonzakura a stray but heated onceover as he draws the sword and its sheath from his hakama. 

Before he has the proper chance to cross the threshold, his wife has taken his sword and offered him a cup of tea.  He halts mid-step, taken aback.  He is not expecting Hisana.  In fact, he is expecting a _change_ to occur since taking in his sister-in-law.  He is unsure of what kind of change it will be, but he knows that he will not like it.  And, he strongly suspects that it will steal the precious few moments he has with his wife.

Yet, as he watches his wife’s small form bend to place his Zanpakutō on its stand, everything seems to be as it has always been.  “I was expecting you to be with your sister,” he murmurs, impassively.

Satisfied with Senbonzakura’s placement, Hisana turns her head and glances askance at him.  “While my husband is in residence?” she asks, clearly finding his assumption inconceivable. Standing, she regards him with an affectionate glance.

He tilts his head to the side as he studies her.  Nothing has changed between them, and he feels a warm comfort at that observation.  As much as he is reticent to admit it, he depends on her.  She cultivates a tranquility in his quarters that would otherwise be oppressive silence in her absence.  She handles the family business with a shrewdness that he does not wish to contemplate nor does he have the time.  And, her unwavering support is irreplaceable. 

Crossing the floor, she gently helps him out of his garments.  Her touches are gentle and light.  If he does not pay close attention, he misses them completely.  But, piece by piece, he is shed of his robes, and, piece by piece, she clothes him in fresh silk. 

“Your poor body,” she notes as she straightens his collar.

He glimpses her out of the corner of his eyes.  She catches his look, and it prompts her to continue.  “You move like an old man,” she teases, gently guiding him to a sitting mat. 

He smiles dimly at her observation.  Indeed, he _feels_ like an old man after training with Senbonzakura.  Every muscle burns with the fiery contempt of a thousand suns when he tries to move.  Even sitting feels like a herculean labor.  His wife, however, eases his pain with tender touches.  Her hands, small and nimble, massage his shoulders.  His breathing becomes easy, and the sparks of agony begin to diminish under her care.

“You went to the spring,” she observes, gathering his hair at the nape his neck in a loose ponytail in her hand. 

The ends must still be damp, he muses.  “Yes,” he replies, shutting his eyes for a moment.  He can tell that she is frowning.  He can almost _hear_ it as she exhales a heavy breath.  Her touches become feather-light, as if she is afraid that she may aggravate his inflamed muscles.

He catches her hand and holds it for a moment.  He can smell her perfume, white plum, on her sleeve, and he inhales a deep breath, letting her fragrance sink into his lungs.  “Rukia,” he begins, trying his hardest to rouse his tired thoughts.  It was never an easy task when his wife was nearby.  She could shred his resolve with a look.

Hisana gracefully takes a seat across from him, and she clasps his hand in both of hers.  “My sister?” she urges him to continue.

“I have secured her an unseated position at the Thirteenth.”

Hisana nods.  “A sinecure, in other words?”

A small half-smile lengthens his lips at his wife’s words.  There was no use in beating around the bush with her.  Yet, despite her directness, he does not detect dissatisfaction with his efforts.  “She would perform duties of an unseated officer,” he explains evenly.

Hisana lifts her head and inhales a shaky breath.  “Does her skill level merit an unseated position?” she asks.

“It will keep her safe,” he states in attempt to sound commanding, but he falls short.  He falls short because he _intends_ to discuss the option with his wife despite his well-practice haughtiness.

“You did not answer my question, Lord Byakuya,” she observes through a knowing grin. 

“I do not know.  She would have to take an officer’s test.”

“Will she not have to take an officer’s test anyway?”

“Even for the _sinecure_ , you mean?” he says, teasingly.

Hisana’s grin widens at his language.  “Yes, even for the sinecure.”

He nods and takes a sip of his tea.  “For recordkeeping, yes.”

“And if she does well enough to merit a seated position?”

“She would receive an unseated position.”

Hisana frowns at this.  “Do you think she would _want_ a seated position?”

Byakuya stares at her, unsure if she is trying to bait him.  “I do not know what she wants.”  A prevarication, he knows.  One that his wife immediately catches.

“Do you think most of the students at the Academy want seated or unseated positions?” she tries again.

“Hisana,” he murmurs warningly, “I am in no mood for sophistry.”

She smiles at him, knowing all too well that he has caught on to her.  “If you are asking my opinion because you value my insight, then I think it would be prudent to allow her to take the officer’s test after the yearlong tutoring as planned.  If her skill merits a seated position and she wants it, then she should have that option.”  Her smile fades as she considers the implications.  “However, if you are asking for me to listen to your plan as a courtesy, then I will not oppose you.”

Byakuya’s gaze trails to the side.  “Very well,” he says, thoughtfully.  “We will let the officer’s examination determine her rank.”

Hisana squeezes her husband’s hand.  “Come,” she says, softly, “we should take a stroll through the garden and see the plum trees.”

His expression softens at her offer, and he is eager to accept until his muscles cry out in protest.  His wife, however, helps him to his feet, and leads him to the garden door.  Just as she draws back the panel, she turns, eying him slyly.  “So why the Thirteenth and not the Sixth?”

“Because I am not a stupid man.”

She giggles heartedly at his response.  “Indeed,” she says, tucking her arm against his as they cross into the garden.   


End file.
